


A Little Broken

by mynameis_not_cathofaragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Drabble, Ficlet, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Rosie-centric, i don't know how tags work yet sorry, kind of, not explicit though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:15:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25118980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameis_not_cathofaragon/pseuds/mynameis_not_cathofaragon
Summary: Rosie knows her parents aren't like the others, but it's okay.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 70





	A Little Broken

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I post here, so I'm still kind of figuring things out. I posted this like a year ago on fanfiction.net under the same username btw. Oh! And English isn't actually my first language, so feel free to point out any mistakes

Rosie knew her parents weren’t like others. It wasn’t because they were two boys instead of a boy a girl, not even because of her Pop’s intelligence. No, it was because some nights she would hear muffled sobs and tears falling down the hallway.  
But don’t get me wrong, she knew people cried sometimes, men and women, but these were different cries. They didn’t happen often, but when they did, it was late at night, and the little girl couldn’t sleep, and she would hear a scream filled with what she would later understand was pain.   
Then the sobbing, and muffled words, sometimes even steps that seem to go to kitchen, or the bathroom. Some words she could remember: Afghanistan, Magnussen, Moriarty, terrorism. Being a little kid she understood none of them, but she had deduced the first one was a place, or maybe a moment, the next two ones were names, and the last one…well, it was a hard word she couldn’t understand just yet.  
“Why do Daddy and Pops cry late at night sometimes?” She had once asked her uncle in the sweet innocence of a 7-year-old, her big blue eyes were bigger than usual and showing concern.  
The question had taken the always prepared Mycroft Holmes by surprised. His eyes darkened and he struggled to find the right words. “They…they saw and experienced things, Rosie,” he had said,” sad and horrible things, each on a different way and in different times. They are a little broken.” Seeing his niece was soon to cry, he rushed to add: “But they are fixing each other, little by little, and you, my dear, are helping.”  
“Oh…will I see things too?”  
“Not if we can help it.”   
They were healing, he had said, and she believed him, because after the crying she would hear the soft ‘I love you’s and ‘here I am’s. The sobbing often stopped by then, replaced by quiet and silence, but it was a good one. And in the morning they’d looked a little down and crave the other’s physical contact.   
But they were smiling, and Rosie knew that even though her fathers weren’t like the other kids’ they would always be there for one another and for her, and although they were a little broken, they were healing and they would be fine.


End file.
